3 – Irene of Castile (July 11, 1417)
The trip was a mistake. They were supposed to be in 1616 Padua, but ended up earlier, in Castile, as the old time ship, the Audrey Niffenegger, was out of service and the time portals were unreliable for a trip of over 1500 years. It was the historian's fault; he should have waited for the ship to be repaired.
That wasn't so bad when Rick saw Irene performing in a play, a pastiche revue where there was singing and puppetry and some slapstick comedy. Her troupe camped out near their stage, and lived on the charity of their audience, mainly. She plucked an underfed pullet and cooked it over their campfire; they ate their donated dinner with their fingers. From the look of Irene, it would not be the first time she had ever gone to bed hungry. That was probably true of everyone in the small troupe.
Despite her poverty, she still had the desire to share her body with him, in a clearing near the encampment. The stars were spectacular, the visibility off the charts. Rick could clearly see Megrez, in the Big Dipper, where the handle met the pan. It was the star for the Xyrillian home world.
She pulled her shabby skirt back down. "Ricardo," Irene asked, "what brings you here? Surely you are not a follower of our work."
"We're day laborers."
"No, you are not. I'm not stupid. You have all of your teeth, as if you were in your late teens, maybe. But you make love – despite your teeth – as if you were older. Why is that?"
He didn't have the heart to specify that he was really in his late thirties and that her perspective was off because most people his real age were dead or close to it, worn out by disease and heavy labor. He didn't have the heart, either, to tell her that she, too, would likely be dead within the decade. "You got me. I'm older, Irene."
"Then you're wealthy. To live well past age twenty! That is rare. What sort of magic made you older and still healthy? Ricardo, quién eres tu?"
"No soy nadie. Soy un extraño."
